


take you with a steady hand

by rumbrave



Category: Avengers (Comic), Marvel Ultimates, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 06:14:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumbrave/pseuds/rumbrave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes she forgets fire isn't the only thing that burns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take you with a steady hand

**take you with a steady hand**

She's been trying not to notice it happening for a few weeks now. The way the edges of everything start to blur, to fit together wrong. At first it's just a slight catch at the edge of her vision, like a trick of the light.

And then other things happen, like they always do. The curtains, caught in the early spring breeze, pause in a flutter of fabric just a second too long. The clock chimes the hour, the toning of the bells discordant and elongated, echoing in ways it shouldn't.

Pietro is gone on some mission for Magneto, far away. Of course he would be back in a few seconds at most if she needed him. And she tells herself if it gets worse, she'll call for him. He'll come for her. He always does.

Only this time, when it's bad enough that she's seeing the shadows of things that aren't real cast by the things that are, it's not  
Pietro that comes for her.

It's her father.

* * *

"You should have mentioned you were having episodes." The metal slides effortlessly through the air, smooth like his voice, flows like water across her skin. "This could have been taken care of much sooner."

Wanda doesn't make a sound. The metal hardens around her wrists, her ankles. With it, he can move her like a toy -- though he's never had much trouble doing that, metal or no.

"I'm sorry." Her response is automatic, her head bowed and eyes lowered.

"You always are." He stands next to the bed, arms behind his back, regarding her with an expression of mild distaste. "I would prefer not to do this myself. But as much as I try to insist this sort of thing is irrelevant, it would not do for me to allow anyone else to discipline you, given our shared genetic bond."

_Our shared genetic bond._

Wanda pulls against the metal in sharp, hard tugs. Her fingers flutter uselessly. She should have called Pietro. He's going to be very angry at her when he returns, when he finds out this has happened again.

"You see, Wanda," Magneto continues, clipped and precise, pulling off his gloves. "You and your brother think I do not value you. And yet, if I did not, it would be someone else's responsibility to see to you. Your status in the Brotherhood hardly merits the attentions of the General, and I am far too busy to make this a routine habit."

"I'm sorry," Wanda says again, meekly, hiding behind the fall of her hair. There's a sudden movement, a crack against her skin as he smacks her.

"You're sorry...?" The word hangs there, like a threat.

"I'm sorry, _sir_."

There are no windows in Magneto's private chambers. But there's glass somewhere near, and it's shattering into pieces -- a lot of glass, Wanda can feel it all tremble and break apart. The air lights up with a flash. There's a shout from somewhere below. Nothing in Magneto's immediate vicinity moves.

Magneto's eyes are the color of glass, and just as sharp. They flicker towards the door, and then back to her. His mouth sets in a grim line. "I see I should get on with things," he says, and begins to undo his belt.

* * *

Wanda wonders if he's like this all the time, if this is how he takes the men and women he brings to his bed for pleasure.

She knows he is capable of passion, she's seen him give plenty of speeches about the Cause -- his voice throbs with conviction, his eyes burn feverish and bright like they're lit from some inner fire. That's not how it is when she's beneath him in his bed.

"You are a dangerous weapon, my dear." His hands slide down her over her breasts, her stomach -- they make her shiver even as they draw a helpless response from her. "But a beautiful one, all the same." His hand between her legs is insistent, forceful. "Do you understand why I am doing this? Why you must be reminded of your place?"

His fingers are cold as they press inside of her. It hurts, but she can't close her legs -- he's using the metal on her ankles to keep them open -- and she can't close her eyes because there are the smallest bits of metal, fine as dust, sprinkled on her eyelids. She can feel the slightest pull of his powers keeping them open. "Yes."

"You can warp the fabric of time, and yet you occupy yourself with temper tantrums and broken glass." He leans down, mouth brushing over her throat, her collarbones, tracing a slow cold path down her body. He has three fingers inside of her, stretching her impossibly, it's too much. "You could stop me, now, if you really wanted to." He looks up at her, a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth. "But you don't really want to, do you, Wanda."

She shakes her head, but it's not enough. His fingers press in again, relentless, brutal. "No."

It's still not enough. Slices of metal pull away from the restraints on her wrists, join together and wrap slowly around her throat. The metal is not warmed from her skin. It tightens, threateningly. Enticingly. "No, _what_?"

"No, sir." She can barely choke the words out, the collar is too tight.

"Good. I won't have you forgetting who I am and what you are to me."

Wanda wants to tell him that she can't forget what she doesn't know, but there isn't breath enough in her lungs for the words. He shifts so he is above her, between her legs, hands on either side of her head. "Look at me."

The metal dust won't let her close them, but she wants to. She looks at him as he pushes into her, meets his flat, cold gaze with her own. He's slow but not gentle, it's not meant to feel good. But it does, and she has to bite her lip to keep from making any sounds. She's supposed to be punished, she's not supposed to like it.

It doesn't matter, he sees it anyway. Maybe it's in the gleam of her eyes, the way she moves beneath him, the little movement she's allowed is definitely not an attempt to pull away. "This -- this is exactly what I'm talking about," he hisses, his voice only slightly altered by what he's doing. "No self-control, Scarlet Witch. None at all." His hips rock against hers, steady and now that she's accustomed to his length inside her, he starts moving faster, sharper, starts to make it hurt.

The air is charged with her powers. He's still staring down at her, one hand grasping her chin to force her gaze to his. She wonders how he's doing that, balancing his weight on one hand like that and still not touching her anywhere except where he's brutally thrusting into her. The collar tightens as if helpfully answering the question for her -- the metal, of course.

"Control it," Magneto hisses, and whether he means her powers or the pleasure climbing her like ivy, she doesn't know. "Or by god, I will send you back to an institution that will make the last seem like a palace."

Wanda tightens around him, and that catches him off guard -- his breath catches, and there's a momentary flare in his eyes but it's not heat. His hand drops from her chin and smacks her, hard, across the face. "Stop that, little whore. It's not what we are here for."

Sometimes she forgets fire isn't the only thing that burns.

He's hurting her now with the force of it, braced above her. At some point she finds she can close her eyes, which means either his control has slipped or else he's allowing her to do so. It's probably the latter. The tension has built up to a feverish pitch, she can feel things in the air that aren't there. The collar is so tight she's lightheaded. His mouth is at her ear, his breathing a harsh, rhythmic pant. "Control it."

She tries. The air is heavy like a storm is about to break. She's on the edge in every way, and she flings the metal off of her arms with a thought and grabs his shoulders. "No," he hisses, and the metal is back again, stronger than before. She wonders what it means that she took used her powers to free her hands and not her throat. That she put her hands on him, instead of pushing him away.

_No self control._ He's right. She's shaking beneath him and there are tears in her eyes, threatening to spill over. He sees them and nods, like he's been waiting for that. All of his weight is on top of her now, overwhelming, as rigid as the metal he commands. His breath is hot on her skin, not quite so rhythmic anymore. "Ask me. Ask me like a good soldier."

The collar loosens a fraction of an inch, enough for her to talk. "Please, sir."

"Please, _what_ , Wanda?"

"Please let me come, sir."

There's a second where she thinks he may tell her no. He's done it before, when it was just his hand on her instead of him inside of her. There's something in the quick stutter of his hips against hers that tells her he's close, and when he finishes it is finished. That's always the rule. "Please, sir, please," Wanda begs him, insensate, lost in the press of his weight and the force of everything he is, pushing her down, down.

"A little more, I think," he rasps at her ear, and bites her on the lobe. Like everything else he does, It hurts but it won't leave a mark. Just the shadow of pain, a reminder. "Good," he says. "You may."

The only time he kisses her is when she breaks apart for him, splinters into a million pieces. She's not sure if he does it because he wants to, or to swallow the sounds she makes so no one hears them.

* * *  
The metal never warms but it's still cold when it's removed. She sits up, shaking, and watches him. His back is to her as he fixes his uniform, turns elegantly and clasps his hands behind his back.

There's a strange look on his face. Wanda wonders if she favors her mother, since Pietro is so obviously their father's son. She doesn't want to think of Pietro, so she doesn't ask. For a moment she thinks he's going to say something, address her like a daughter instead of a general.

He doesn't. He reaches down and collects her clothes, throws them at her. "Dress yourself."

It takes her a few moments, she's trembling and it's hard to steady her hands. He doesn't turn and give her the courtesy of his back while she dresses, watches her with his winter-hawk eyes and stands rigid at parade-rest. "Come here."

She knows what he expects. Wanda makes her way towards him on unsteady feet, then sinks to her knees and bows her head.

"Do you have something to say to me?"

There's a streak of rebelliousness that blooms hot like a summer flower in her soul at that, but she doesn't allow it the chance to blossom. She has enough control now to know better. "Thank you, sir."

She can't quite keep the hate out of her voice.

He lays his hand, gloved again, on her head. The weight of it is as heavy as he was a few moments ago. This is a benediction and not a punishment, but there isn't much difference. There never is.

He surprises her by stroking his hand down her hair, fingers tipping her chin up to him. They regard each other solemnly. She wonders what he's trying to keep himself from saying, from letting show.

"Go clean up the glass."

Wanda rises smoothly to her feet. He's standing with his back to her, arms crossed, staring at the metal wall. There's nothing there. He doesn't turn around as she leaves.

She can still feel the weight of his hand on her head. In that moment, it seems like she always will.

_Pietro. Come home._


End file.
